Letters Across the Sea

by Genevieve Graham

  She looked over her shoulder. “You know what, bubbala. It’s for you.”

  “My favourite,” he said, sitting at the table and helping himself. He’d missed her cooking so much. “Thank you, Mama.”

  “More studying today?”

  “No, I’m going to the factory this morning. I haven’t been yet. I should see if Papa needs help.”

  “He would like that, but stay a few minutes with your mama. I want to hear you laugh.”

  “I laugh plenty, Mama.” But he knew she had a point.

  She placed a cup of tea before him then sat across with her own cup. “You work more than you laugh. You are young only once, my son. I see other boys outside, doing things that boys like to do. You should do those things.”

  “Yes, Mama, but will those boys become doctors? Will they make their mamas proud?”

  “You make me proud already.” She eyed the latkes. “Save some for Hannah.”

  On the table by his father’s chair lay a folded issue of Der Yidisher Zhurnal, Toronto’s Yiddish newspaper. The headline was bold and intriguing. Max slid it closer.

  “Maybe you shouldn’t read too much of that,” she suggested. “Too much hate in this world. There’s nothing we can do about it but be sad.”

  In a way, she was right: there was nothing they could do about what was happening with Germany’s new chancellor, Adolf Hitler, and Eastern Europe. But the Zhurnal also reported on issues and rising tensions happening in the city. Toronto was like a hot tin roof these days, with people hopping from one cause to another, demanding jobs, homes, and fair treatment, extolling communism, walking lines of tension as strained as a tightrope. Max needed to know every inch of that tightrope so he could navigate it expertly.

  He scanned the Yiddish type. “It does no one any good to wear blinders, Mama.”

  His mother observed him a moment, then she got to her feet again. She never could sit still for too long. “You sound like your papa.”

  “With most things,” he agreed. “Papa wrote to me about the League for the Defence of Jewish Rights.”

  He’d felt so proud, learning his father had been a part of the league’s first meeting that April at Massey Hall. There, various Jewish organizations had come together to address rising anti-Semitism in Canada and beyond, trying to decide what to do about it. Unfortunately, after the first meeting, his father had written to him that the leaders of the movement had argued incessantly, including about who would be on the shtadlanim, the committee that would negotiate with the government. Too many political agendas, he’d lamented. Max wasn’t altogether surprised. In his experience, they could barely get a roomful of men in their synagogue to agree on anything, let alone the whole country. Still, the formation of the league was an important step.

  His mother swept in with the teapot, topping up his cup before he was halfway done—her loving way of keeping him with her a little longer.

  “Your father talks of little else,” she said. “Protests and meetings and boycotts and who knows what. Who wants to hear about that?”

  Max wanted to hear about that. His heels tapped under the table, eager to get going.

  “It’s killing you, sitting here with your mama, isn’t it?”

  “No. I just—”

  She laughed. “It’s all right. Go on.”

  “Thanks.” He drained his tea then gave her another peck on the cheek and headed for the door.

  Outside, the morning air was warm, but from the weight of it, he could tell the afternoon was going to be steamy. At least for now it was pleasant. As he passed Palermo’s, he popped inside to say hello to Molly, but when he asked if she was around, Mr. Palermo shook his head then apologized, saying he was too busy to talk. Since he and Max were the only two in the store, it seemed odd, but a lot of things were odd these days. Max wished him a good day and left, almost bumping into Richie outside the hardware store next door.

  “Hey, Richie. I was hoping to run into you sometime.”

  “Max.” Richie gave a sheepish half grin. “I heard you were back.”

  There were so many things Max wanted to say, but he didn’t know where to start. He nodded toward the store. “You on a break?”

  “Yep,” Richie replied, sliding his hands into his trouser pockets.

  Max wasn’t used to the strained pauses between them. “I missed you at the game.”

  “I haven’t played in a while. Not much time for it. And the fellas don’t play, so, you know.”

  “The fellas?”

  “I don’t think you’d know them.”

  “Oh.” The seconds ticked past. “Sorry to hear that. It’s not the same without you.”

  “Yeah, well. Things change,” he said. “You weren’t here. I did other stuff.”

  Max felt a familiar pang of guilt at the reminder. During the last year of high school, whenever Richie had come to the Dreyfus house, Max had his head buried in his books. He still felt bad for having to turn his friend away so often.

  “I needed to study. I needed to get the marks for the scholarship.”

  Richie hesitated. “You know you’re the guy who could get everything right without even trying, yeah?”

  “It’s not like that.”

  Richie had no idea how hard Max studied. Still, Max knew he had it pretty easy in comparison. Unlike the Ryans, his family didn’t need him to work, so he’d been able to put everything into winning the scholarship.

  “Can I ask a question?”

  It struck Max that the old Richie would have just gone ahead and said what was on his mind. “Sure.”

  “Why did you go to McMaster in Hamilton instead of the University of Toronto?”

  Max’s mouth went dry, and he struggled to think of a believable excuse. There was no way he was going to tell Richie the real reason.

  “There was… I wanted to study under a specific professor at Mac.”

  At the time, the truth had been devastating. Now it was just embarrassing. Deep down, Max understood the University of Toronto’s quota for Jewish students wasn’t his fault, but he still felt humiliated over their rejection. It also made him angry every time he thought about it. Practically anyone else could march right into the university, but even if he’d gotten full marks on every subject, Max wouldn’t have been permitted into the hallowed halls.

  Richie nodded slowly. “I see.” He looked like he was going to ask something more, and Max braced to tell another lie, then Richie’s attention shifted past him. “I gotta get back to work. I’ll see you.”

  Max checked up the street, wondering what had prompted Richie to leave so abruptly, and spotted a group of four boys walking his way. He recognized one of them, Phil Burke, from elementary school, though he’d never known him well. Phil’s bleached white polo shirt was buttoned to the top, and a cigarette was propped behind one ear. Max watched him run a hand through his slicked blond hair then lean toward the other boys, saying something Max couldn’t hear. All their eyes slid to Max, and anger stirred in his gut. He’d seen this too often at McMaster. As they passed, all four glared as if they each had a personal score to settle with him, but Max stood his ground. Didn’t matter how many knuckles Phil cracked, Max refused to be intimidated.

  By the time he arrived at his father’s warehouse on Spadina Avenue, some of his fury had faded, and he tried to push the rest away. It was midmorning, and there were two delivery trucks parked outside. A small crowd of people moved in and out of the building, their arms full, and Max remembered that Fridays were delivery days, sending stock to stores. As he approached, a tall, bearded man in a white shirt stepped outside, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

  “Papa!” Max said.

  His father turned, arms open. “Max, my boy. You’re here to help?”

  “Of course. In exchange for lunch?”

  “I will gladly buy you lunch if you help with all this.”

  For the next two hours, Max and the others worked through the rising heat of the day, loading boxes of bran
d-new dresses, trousers, and coats while his father checked and double-checked inventory lists. When they were finally done, sweat rolled down Max’s face, and some of the workers’ shirts were drenched through. His father caught his eye and tipped his head toward the deli up the street.

  “Let’s go see Harry Shopsowitz. He’s been asking about you lately.”

  Max had forgotten how quickly his father walked. He had always taken long strides, his hands folded behind his back as if he was thinking hard. As a boy, Max had taken great pride in being able to match the speed of those steps. Now he was as tall as his father, but he still had to make an effort to keep up.

  “It’s good to see steady business, considering the times,” Max said.

  His father shook his head. “Two trucks, and they weren’t even full. Before, it was four or five. But I have to remember to be thankful for what we still have. Saul Rubenstein, you remember him? With the leather coats?”

  “Of course.” Saul had been his father’s best friend for years, and Max played on the Harbord team with his son, Snooky.

  “He’s barely producing a quarter of his old sales. He’s afraid he might go bankrupt.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  About a block away from Shopsy’s Delicatessen, Max spotted another sign: JEWS NEED NOT APPLY. “It’s worse than I thought,” he muttered.

  “What is?”

  Max jabbed his thumb at the shop. “That sign back there. In the window.”

  His father waved a hand. “That’s been going on since the beginning of time. Your Zeyde Ira and Bubbe Rachel lived through worse. They were strong people, them. You remember that, Maxim: you come from strong people.”

  When he was young, Max had found the story of why his grandparents fled Poland to be thrilling, in a dark, frightening way. On Christmas Day 1881, after Christians gathered in the Holy Cross church in Warsaw for mass, a false rumour had spread that there was a fire in the building. Twenty-nine Christians were killed in the subsequent stampede. Then the rumours took on a life of their own, and though there was no proof, people claimed the Jews were responsible. For three days after that, any Jewish store, business, or home near the church was targeted for destruction by rioters. When Max’s fourteen-year-old grandfather was chased by a man with a hammer, the family decided it was past time to leave.

  In Max’s young imagination, he had been in Warsaw, fighting back, defending the neighbourhood. His father had put a stop to that way of thinking.

  “Do not wish violence upon yourself, Maxim,” he’d said. “Our lives on earth are short enough. Your grandparents were wise to come here. They didn’t have two pennies to rub together, and they didn’t know but one word of English between them, but they were safe here.”

  Max’s grandparents had settled in The Ward, a slum in downtown Toronto that housed hundreds of other immigrants, including Italians and Chinese. Through odd jobs and hard work, Max’s grandparents eventually managed to move out and buy a house in Kensington, where Max’s father had been born. These days, most of The Ward was gone. The ramshackle homes had been replaced by massive stone buildings.

  At Shopsy’s Deli, Max and his father took a table near the window, and before they even sat down, other patrons stopped by to greet them. His father had always engaged with the people of their community, and their connections went deeper than simple friendships. Max stood back and watched the conversations, enjoying the custom.

  “Ezra, how are you?” they asked.

  “You see my son Max is back?”

  “Good to see you, Max. You’re looking well. So tall! How was school? Are you a doctor yet?”

  Max shook their hands and answered politely, explaining that he had another four years to go, and they all nodded.

  “Good for you, Max. We’re all proud of you.”

  As more people greeted them, Max was reminded of a special truth. Despite the prejudice and animosity his community experienced, he knew that no matter where he went in life, he would always be a member of this family. His people were like bees, working hard, and always recognizing each other as friends and kin.

  When they were finally alone, Max and his father sat, then Max leaned over the table toward him. “Tell me what’s happening, Papa. I’ve been reading the papers, but it’s difficult when I’m in school.”

  “Many interesting things, my son.” He smiled up at the young waitress who approached. “You got lox today? And cream cheese?”

  “Always,” she said.

  “Sounds good. Max?”

  “I’ll have the same. And coffee,” Max added. “Okay, Papa. Tell me what you were gonna say.”

  “Well, your mother probably told you all about it.”

  “Not all, but I got the feeling that whatever you’re doing, she’d rather you stop doing it.”

  He chuckled. “She’s probably right. She usually is.”

  “What about all the talk of strikes? Do you worry about the labour movement?”

  His father shrugged. “Why should I worry? I’m good to my employees. The trouble with socialism in our industry is that there’s not much margin. The workers want more money, but I don’t have much to give. If they push too hard, they force me out of business, and we all lose. But most of my employees are Jewish. Why would we fight among ourselves when the world is already fighting us?”

  “Tell me what’s happening with the League for the Defence of Jewish Rights.” Max paused, leaning back as the waitress set down his coffee. “Thanks.” He turned back to his father. “I’ve read the headlines and your letters, but I want to hear it from you.”

  “It’s a good organization, I think. Rabbi Sachs is in charge, along with Shmuel Meir Shapiro.”

  “The editor of Der Yidisher Zhurnal.”

  “Yes. Many, many people came to the April meeting. Some weren’t even Jewish. And now, Jews across the country are starting to come together. The irony is that the Nazis want to persecute us, but their hatred is pulling us together. We’re getting stronger because of them.”

  “I’d like to come to a meeting, Papa.”

  His father reached across the table and patted Max’s hand. “Since you were little you wanted to get into the fight. But you, you’re going to be a doctor. The first in our family to go to university. You remember telling me that? What were you, twelve?”

  “Twelve.”

  “And you had a plan. Best doctor and baseball player in the world, you said. Then you got the scholarship, and your marks—you’re top of the class.” He shook his head, marvelling. “Oy vey, what a brain you’ve got. Why would you want to get mixed up in politics? No, you have other things to spend your time on.”

  Max pulled his hand away. “Papa, I’d like to be involved. This is too important.”

  His father let out a long sigh. “Okay, okay. I will take you to the meeting tomorrow. Your mama’s gonna kill me.” He tapped the table with one finger. “You know, your mama’s a smart woman. You must find yourself a smart woman, Maxim. One who thinks for herself.” He smiled. “Without smart women, we men often do stupid things.”

  * * *

  The smoke-filled meeting room on Beverly Street was crowded with men young and old, taking up chairs and leaning against the walls. His father pointed a thick finger toward the other side of the room.

  “I’ll be over there with Saul,” he said. “You stay here.”

  “Fine with me, Papa. There are too many thick grey beards up there for my taste.”

  His father chuckled, stroking his own salt-and-pepper chin as he walked away. Max scouted the crowd for familiar faces, then he heard his name, and an arm clamped around his shoulder.

  “What, I can’t go a month without seeing your sorry face?”

  Max grinned at the sight of Arnie Schwartz, his roommate from McMaster. Arnie was a half foot shorter than Max, with thick black eyebrows that arched up in a way that gave the impression he was laughing at everything. He always looked disheveled, but he was smart and he had a wonderfull
y dry sense of humour.

  “I could say the same,” Max said. He held out a hand to Arnie’s younger brother, Samuel. “It’s good to see you, Sam.”

  Samuel shook his hand. “Welcome to the assembly of the League for the Defence of Jewish Rights, where all the important men in town meet.”

  “And they let you two in?” Max teased.

  “Oh yes,” Samuel said, rolling his shoulders back. He was even shorter than Arnie, but his big personality made up for that. “We make all the big decisions. Those old guys up front just take the credit.”

  “Arnie tells me you’re getting married, Sam. Mazel tov. When’s the big day?”

  “Next spring, she says. Lucy is in charge of everything, of course. I hope you’ll come.”

  “If I can,” Max said. “So, what else is new? Arnie and I have been living under a rock at school.”

  Samuel happily filled him in on all the gossip about their old friends. Some were married, a couple had moved out of the city, but most were working in the textile industry on Spadina, alongside Max’s father’s factory.

  “You need to come out from under your rock more often,” Samuel advised. “Or you’ll never find a wife.”

  “Don’t worry about that, little brother,” Arnie said. “What girl is not going to want to marry a tall, dark, handsome doctor?”

  From behind Max came a voice he hadn’t heard in a while—and one he’d rather hoped not to hear again. Glancing over his shoulder, he spotted tall, spindly Yossel Abelman making his way toward them.

  “Here we go,” Arnie said under his breath.

  Yossel was a few years older than Max, with a scraggly beard and a nose that looked as if it had been broken at least twice. He was a passionate Zionist, and ever since learning that Max wasn’t, he delighted in starting arguments with him.

  “Yossel. It’s been a while.”

  “Tell me, Max. Have you had your fill of persecution yet?” Yossel asked right away, settling into a seat across from Max. “Shall I tell you again about our homeland? It would have no Irish, no Italians, no Catholics, no goyim at all. It would be a place of peace and strength. We are always running. There, we would never run from oppression again.”